Replanted basil seedlings for the third time, moving pots away from whatever is eagerly devouring my new basil and coriander. A late summer without fresh basil is unthinkable.
The minestra or baby minestrone soup was a great success. The former art teacher called to say it was the best soup she has ever had. Immediately I began planning more soups (that visceral connection between flattered vanity and greed, the urge to show off). Ribolito, I said to the housemate. A pumpkin soup with black beans. An Asian laksa with prawns and udon noodles. A tomato soup made silky with red peppers.
‘I think she meant that it was good as far as soup goes,’ said the housemate. ‘Not a culinary conversion or white-light experience. Not give-me-soup-once-a-day, soup glorious soup, soup, nothing quite like it.’
How would gritty noir-ish crime writer Raymond Chandler have written a cookery book? Amusing parody found here. Not to be emulated.
I sipped on my whiskey sour, ground out my cigarette on the chopping board and watched a bug trying to crawl out of the basin. I needed a table at Maxim’s, a hundred bucks and a gorgeous blonde; what I had was a leg of lamb and no clues. I took hold of the joint. It felt cold and damp, like a coroner’s handshake. I took out a knife and cut the lamb into pieces. Feeling the blade in my hand I sliced an onion, and before I knew what I was doing a carrot lay in pieces on the slab. None of them moved. I threw the lot into a pan with a bunch of dill stalks, a bay leaf, a handful of peppercorns and a pinch of salt. They had it coming to them, so I covered them with chicken stock and turned up the heat. I wanted them to boil slowly, just about as slowly as anything can boil. An hour and a half and a half-pint of bourbon later they weren’t so tough and neither was I. I separated the meat from the vegetables and covered it. The knife was still in my hand but I couldn’t hear any sirens.
Sadly, I do remember cooking like that and am relieved to still have all my digits, along with too many memories of sloppy over-salted, hyper-spiced dishes swimming in the unvolatilized red wine that hadn’t gone down my gullet. A coroner’s handshake sounds about right. My golden rule for dishes that may have unsuspected quantities of alcohol lurking in them when you are in restaurants or at boozy family reunions is to sniff first. Most of us can tell very quickly if there is port marinading the innocent cherries or a slug of brandy in the jus. If in doubt, don’t touch it.
The serious temptations, though, aren’t usually lurking in the cream sauce or jug of doctored orange juice. Family dynamics are booby-trapped with old hurts and resentments and reminders why we are better off at a meeting rather than fighting those old unwinnable battles around the dining table. Again, and I say this from experience, if in doubt, don’t go there.
Nothing is worth losing sobriety over. Sobriety makes everything else possible.
And this too, a poem Jo posted, written by Judyth Hill:
Wage Peace
Breathe in firemen and rubble,
breathe out whole buildings
and flocks of redwing blackbirds.
Breathe in terrorists and breathe out sleeping children
and freshly mown fields.
Breathe in confusion and breathe out maple trees.
Breathe in the fallen
and breathe out lifelong friendships intact.
Wage peace with your listening:
hearing sirens, pray loud.
Remember your tools:
flower seeds, clothes pins, clean rivers.
Make soup.
Play music, learn the word for thank you in three languages.
Learn to knit, and make a hat.
Think of chaos as dancing raspberries,
imagine grief as the outbreath of beauty
or the gesture of fish.
Swim for the other side.
Wage peace.
Never has the world seemed so fresh and precious.
Have a cup of tea and rejoice.
Act as if armistice has already arrived.
Don’t wait another minute.
Breath keeps us centered and grounded like nothing else I have ever found in all my years. When in doubt, breathe in and then out carefully.
Lynda that is so true — most of us don’t breathe deeply enough to get in the oxygen we need, we go through crises with shallow rapid breathing and end up gasping for air. And if we pay attention to our breathing, it keeps us in touch with our bodies.
Amazing how many times I have heard a barely sober person agonize about not wanting to be “embarrassed” by smelling the food, or even spitting it out. I guess they would rather be “embarrassed” by sleeping with the boss’ husband or passing out in the bushes.
In early sobriety we have NO sense of priorities. I would spit without thinking twice. And I lean forward and sniff like my dog at another dog’s bottom.
I don’t know which is better–the Chandler parody or the poem! The poem is a keeper.
Thank you for remembering posts about my childhood. Military, yes. Uber strict, many secrets, emotions not allowed, moving constantly, no sense of place. I’ve been trying to create the loving, warm, spontaneous family ever since.I need to give it a rest.
XOXOX
Lou, so much controlling behaviour comes from anxiety or the habit of needing to have everything in order, the way we were taught to behave. I grew up in a family that was pretending to be ‘English’ (we were just fucked-up colonials) and the message I was given as a child is “There’s nothing wrong and don’t you dare talk about it’. We were never allowed to lose our tempers or act like children. Unlearning these things takes a long time.
Wonderful poem. I like the idea of imagining grief as the gesture of fish. Waging peace. I will do that today.
Thinking of you Syd — and about your parents-in-law. It is a lovely poem.
Vicarious Rising also wrote about the incendiary nature of long exposure to family members. I had wanted to relate to the ‘thinking that I can live with my mother’ thing but couldn’t through to her comments. So, I had to tell you instead. But what I really have to tell you is that I dug the Chandler cover. Indeed!
I think I remember that Carol — I wish I could find out where Vicarious Rising is now, I loved her blog and know she was going to start a new venture.
Chandler parodies are hilarious — those hard-bitten private eyes with their tough blondes!
Wonderful post. Glad for your rain. What could possibly be eating basil? Hmmm. Sounds like your housemate is very good at keep you grounded.